


Field of Presidents

by raving_liberal



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: American History, American Presidents, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raving_liberal/pseuds/raving_liberal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Pardon me,” said the small man at Shadow’s elbow, “but could you direct me to Washington?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Field of Presidents

**Author's Note:**

> [It's a real place.](http://news.yahoo.com/photos/presidential-busts-1455914650-slideshow/presidential-busts-photo-1455914598683.html)

The low sun shone dimly through a grey film of clouds, too weak to make any of the presidential busts cast a shadow. A raven perched on Lincoln’s head and pecked at the crumbling plaster. It let out a half-hearted _caw_ in Shadow’s direction before returning to its determined search for insects within the cracked-eggshell ruin of Lincoln’s skull. 

Shadow thought to himself that the irony of the situation was lost on the bird, then he thought to himself that he never really knew if he was using ‘irony’ correctly or not. He wondered how many times he might have used it incorrectly and if anyone had noticed. Ultimately, he decided, it didn’t matter, since he was alone in the field of presidential busts.

A throat politely cleared itself next to Shadow’s elbow. Shadow started, then looked down at the small man standing beside him, wearing a high-collared shirt, a cravat, and a black coat. He polished the lenses of his spectacles as he peered up at Shadow.

“Pardon me,” said the small man at Shadow’s elbow, “but could you direct me to Washington?”

One very tiny part of Shadow’s mind wanted him to tell the small man to turn north and walk straight for about two days, but he squelched that very tiny part and only said, “Two down,” pointing past the bust of Lincoln. 

“Thank you,” said the small man, replacing his spectacles on his face. He gave Shadow a curt nod before he strode off in the direction Shadow indicated. The small man’s black coat billowed like crow’s wings, and instead of allowing the two of them to part ways after this brief meeting, Shadow found himself following behind the man. A sharp, cold wind blew across the field, throwing snow from presidential shoulders and making the small man’s coat snap. Shadow smelled the sulfuric tang of gunpowder on the wind. The small man shimmered in the cold, rippling, somehow insubstantial. 

When they reached Washington, the small man drew up abruptly, coming to a standstill. Shadow stood next to him, both of them looking at the somber white face. Washington had suffered more wear than many of his successors, though his skull remained intact, putting him in a slightly preferable position to Lincoln and the later Roosevelt. Long, grey cracks ran down Washington’s face. They looked like tears, or—Shadow thought morbidly—like vitreous humors leaking from Washington’s hollow left eye.

The small man gave the statue an odd little salute. When he turned, his own face was drawn and sad. Shadow noted with familiar, detached curiosity that he couldn’t say for sure what the small man looked like. At first meeting, Shadow would have said the small man’s features were fine, with blue eyes and auburn hair, but now his eyes and hair looked dark, though Shadow couldn’t identify the point at which they had changed, or even be certain they had. It gave him the sensation of looking at two men at the same time, though both men were the same small man. 

“He truly was a giant,” the small man said. 

Shadow nodded. He didn’t know much about Washington, but he knew something about giants. 

“Have we met?” the small man asked. 

Shadow shook his head. “Just one of those faces.”

“You do have a familiar countenance,” the small man said. “I hadn't expected to happen upon anyone here.”

Shadow shrugged. “This place is powerful,” he said, which was the truth, and, “I didn't think I would see anybody else here, either,” which was a lie. Shadow expected gods—old and new, monstrous and beautiful—to lurk around every corner.

“I hadn't anticipated finding myself here,” the small man said.

“How did you get here?” Shadow asked. “Did you drive in part of the way? I didn't hear a car.” Irrelevant statement. Rules of the universe must be followed, but Shadow knew better than most that there are rules and then there are _rules_.

“I was drawn here. Perhaps I was born here,” said the small man. A crease marred his smooth brow. A crease joined other creases on his lined, weary brow. “No, I was born in the Caribbean… or in New York… or in the war…” 

“Maybe all of them,” Shadow suggested, as the small man looked increasingly distressed. These things were all possible, afterall.

“A man should know where he comes from, so he can know where he’s going,” the small man said. His eyes lighted upon something, and his face brightened, the lines disappearing.

“Where are you going?” Shadow asked. _Ask him what he wants_ , a woman’s voice whispered. It sounded like moonlight.

“I’m going to piss on Thomas Jefferson,” the small man said, setting off into the statuary with a much more buoyant step. 

Shadow followed him to the Jefferson bust. The small man undid the front of his breeches and began urinating on the bust’s front. 

“There’s room for two, my friend,” the small man said encouragingly. Shadow shrugged again, then unzipped his jeans and started to piss on the back side of the Jefferson bust.

“Why?” Shadow asked, once both streams had dried up.

“Because I always longed to and never had the opportunity,” the small man said. 

Shadow slowly nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Of the many things I’ve been called, ‘reasonable’ has not often been one of them,” said the small man, “but I thank you for that. This likely seems a fool’s errand, I’m sure.”

“Well,” Shadow said, rolling the word around in his mouth. “I used to run errands, and I’m probably a fool, so I’m in good company, as I see it.”

The small man looked pleased. “I quite like you, sir.” 

“Shadow. Shadow Moon,” Shadow said, offering the small man his hand. The small man took it, shaking it. In the moment before the small man responded, Shadow thought he heard music swelling, though it was probably the wind between the statues.

“Alexander Hamilton,” the small man said. 

“Nice to meet you, Alexander,” Shadow said, and then they stood in relative silence, watching the sun set behind the field of presidents.


End file.
